


The Kananga-Largo Special

by TheWyldeWynd



Category: Far Cry 5, Far Cry: New Dawn
Genre: Already Happened Offscreen, Awkward Flirting, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Feels, Flirting, Frenemies with Benefits, Implied D/S relationship, John Lives, John Seed Probably Hasn't Read the Evil Overlord List, Roughness, Seven Years in the Bunker, Slipped in While No One was Looking, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Deputy is So Done, Very Mild Spoilers for Far Cry: New Dawn, Villainy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 08:26:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17845883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: Of all the things that Deputy Robin Baird had expected to happen when the End of the World left her stranded in John Seed's bunkerwithJohn Seed himself... this wasn't one of them.What the hell, John?What.  The.Hell?





	The Kananga-Largo Special

**Author's Note:**

> _Me: *starting New Dawn on the 15th* I am going to play the **hell** out of this game, and not let myself get sidetracked by any plot-bunnies or go near anywhere there might be spoilers lurking until I've finished it!_  
>  _Me: *like... maybe two hours later* DAMN IT!!!_  
> 
> _Me: *starting to write on the 16th* Ok... I can do this. Just a quick drabble, a thousand words tops, slay the plot-bunny quickly, then get **back** to the game!_   
>  _Me: *hours later* **DAMN IT!!!**_
> 
> _One day... I will remember that I cannot write short things. -_-_
> 
> _Welp, enjoy!_  
>   
> 
> Minor Spoilers ahead for: Deep Dive - Selene's recruitment mission

“You know…” Robin drawls, weary, eyes fixed on a very specific point across the room. At her side, she can feel her current companion go stiffer. She ignores him, obviously, and sighs, “I had a normal life once.”

She had too. And it’d been a _nice_ life; she’d had a nice job with nice co-workers, who she’d liked and who’d liked her right on back, and her work had been nice and helpful and fulfilling, and every once in a while she’d gotten to beat the shit out of drug runners or poachers or drunken bar brawlers or whatever, which had been _nice_.

Then the entire world had collectively decided to be a massive _dick_ one day and started dropping nuclear bombs everywhere.

Less nice.

She’s still not entirely sure what cruel trick of fate had landed her next to _John Seed_ – of all people – when the Collapse had started… but enough time’s passed that she can acknowledge that it’d probably saved her life. They’d both been so wired – coming off the events at the church and the dogfight and everything – that they’d nearly froze solid when the first mushroom cloud went pluming up. 

Nearly.

Grabbing John and hauling him after her as she’d sprinted for the nearest vehicle hadn’t been a _conscious_ decision – she’d just _done_ it. And she _certainly_ hadn’t expected him to return the favor when – the world going directly to hell around them, fire and explosions and shaking ground and screams screams _screams_ – something had sent their ATV careening, upending and crashing hard enough to make the ghost of Clutch Nixon gasp in horror. John’d been thrown clear, but Robin’d ended up with the full weight of the wreck pinning her leg.

She’d honestly expected him to leave her there.

Instead she’d barely had the time to blink before he was there – John Seed looming over her again, eyes burning like stars and face like a thunderstorm, only this time he was _helping_ her, lifting the heap of metal up off her leg ( _pretty damn **easily** too, hot damn, so much for being the little bitch brother_) until she managed to scramble her way backwards, biting back screams as she clawed her way across the dirt and tried not to look at the dead weight of her leg. And then John’d been at her side again, doing something to her leg that’d made her _scream_ , made her vision go white for a second, and when it’d started to blur back to life she’d been upright, one arm slung around John’s shoulder and one of his around her waist, and he’d been moving them, had started shouting and –

Robin had fully blacked out for a bit.

She woke back up as their truck came skidding to a halt in front of John’s Gate, John himself half carrying her while the Peggies with them helped the little group of Resistance soldiers inside, one big burly guy carrying someone over his shoulder, everyone gray-faced and wide-eyed, most of them swearing or crying, and they’d gotten through the bunker doors and –

And for a second time that day, John Seed had surprised her.

( _He probably did it on **purpose** too._)

She’d expected them to _slam_ the doors the second their precious Herald was safely inside, leave all the Sinners and stragglers to _burn_ in the cleansing fire of Joseph’s Collapse. Instead John’d set her down against the wall (more gently then he’d probably needed to, honestly), barked for a medic, and immediately thrown himself into coordinating the final moments of the evacuation.

She hadn’t managed to stay awake for most of it, and – judging by the trying-not-to-scare-the-patient level of restrained panic in the medic’s voice – she’d probably been moved to the infirmary PDQ… but she _had_ stayed awake long enough to watch John Seed, long plane-spotted coat swirling all dramatically as he moved, standing before the doors of the bunker, facing down the Apocalypse as the frightened and desperate of Holland Valley raced for the safety he offered.

The image of it is pretty well burned into her mind – John Seed, the living icon of heroism.

The absolute _bastard_.

She got more of the details later, about how John’d kept the bunker open past what his own people had recommended, had actually sent some of his people _back out_ into Holland to pick up whoever they could, flares and fireworks going up above the Gate in a desperate attempt to draw in as many survivors as possible before, finally, they’d _had_ to close the doors, seal the bunker, and wait out the end of the world.

The surprised hadn’t stopped there, either. When enough time’d passed that the initial shock and crippling horror/terror started to wear off, when the Peggies had started talking salvation and atonement and conversion again, and the collected Resistance members who were – as yet – uncaged reacted by staging a mass break-out and barricaded themselves into the control room, and John’s attempts at breaking their will fell through when Robin – at that point firmly secured to an infirmary bed by no fewer than three pairs of handcuffs (because John wasn’t _actually_ stupid) – had ended up _laughing_ too hard to serve as a credible hostage… then John had shocked _everyone_ by actually _negotiating_. And, even _**more**_ astoundingly, he’d actually _kept_ to the negotiated terms.

Petty bastard had probably done it just to screw with her mind.

But... well _whatever_ his reasons were, the end result was that the End of the World was… kind of tolerable.

The Resistance had been granted their own areas of the bunker, their autonomy, and – though, obviously, everyone was required to pull their weight and keep everything running – no one got cut into or tatted up without their own _uncoerced_ consent.

It’s all weirdly civil.

Hell, they’ve reached the point where people are kind of _getting **along**_.

And _that's_ downright _unsettling_.

Though… the _look_ on John’s face when some of the Resistance folk’d started showing up for Services, when some had actually – _willingly_ – _converted_ , and it’d _**finally**_ hit Mr. John Seed that an open invitation worked better than abducting people from their homes and torture-murdering them and their friends and families… well, that image is _also_ burned into Robin’s mind. And honestly it’s very nearly _worth_ the Apocalypse to have it. 

So yeah. They’re alive, they’re not at each other’s throats, and they’ve _finally_ managed to contact other survivors (no one outside Holland, though; radiation’s still too strong for anything beyond that) so they know they’re not alone. It’s… as nice as it can be, really.

There’s even some… _side benefits_ to the whole situation; ones that Robin’d _**never**_ expected but that she honestly can’t complain about.

Though if _one more person_ – on _either_ side – gives her a side-eye and a smile and mentions “political unions” then _somebody’s_ getting _cut_. And it won’t be John doing the honors this time.

And Kim Rye can damn well stop signing off her radio transmissions with the reminder that Robin owes Addie and Sharky fifty bucks each, fuck you very much.

At least Joey hadn’t gotten mad at her.

Though… given the way the senior deputy had just _sighed_ for a second before going about her day – like she’d only been confronted with the confirmation of an annoying inevitability that she’d long since resigned herself to – Robin _kind of_ feels like she should be insulted.

So, all told, everything’s weirdly tolerable, weirdly weird, occasionally hellish when the fact that they’re actually living in a nuclear winter reasserts itself, and altogether _**nothing**_ like her nice, normal life of the days of yore.

_**Case in point…** _

“Now, on the list of things I never thought I’d have to ask another human being…” she cants her head to the side – still staring and still ignoring John’s growing tension – and thinks for a second. “This… _probably_ makes it into the top twenty. Which is _sad_ , honestly; but apparently _this_ is now my life. So…” She turns at last, very slowly and _very_ pointedly to give him the flattest side-eye she can give, catching the full-bodied flinch that turns instantly to stone under her Medusoid gaze. “John? _Why_ do you have an alligator in your doomsday bunker?”

For perhaps the first time _ever_ , John looks appropriately embarrassed. 

“And don’t you dare try and sell this as some kind of Noah’s Ark bullshit, because you’ve only got the _one_ and alligators don’t reproduce through mitosis.”

John’s mouth _-clicks-_ shuts.

“And I know it’s not so you can be assured of stylish footwear in the Post Apocalypse, because even _I_ don’t think you’re that much of a primadona, so…” Robin trails off for a second, waving one hand towards the giant lizard in the hopes that the motion would somehow cause understanding – she’s _long_ since given up on reason – to spring to life from nothingness. “Just… what, was Jacob going on about his wolves one day and you got self-conscious and decided ‘I’ll show _him_!’ and this is how you compensated for not being as rugged and manly as your brother?”

_That_ makes him sputter back to life. “I’m –” Righteous indignation and moral offense make him squeak like a preteen boy, and the flush on his face jumps up a few notches. “ _I_ ,” his voice, once he gets himself together and finds it again, is perfectly level and about an octave lower than normal, “am _abundantly_ rugged and manly.”

She doesn’t even dignify that with a raised eyebrow. “John, please. I have _seen_ your skincare regimen, and _you_ ,” eh, what the hell, the raised eyebrow makes for excellent punctuation ( _and_ it makes John flush _so_ prettily), “are about as rugged as a silk orchid.”

There’s a sudden shift across the room, accompanied by a growl that sounds like the boat engines of hell, and they both go abruptly still.

For about a second.

“Apparently your… _alligator_ ,” just _saying_ the word, acknowledging that _this is now her **life**_ , causes a flare of physical _pain_ , “agrees with me.” An utterly _done_ sigh breaks free from her, “And the scaly apex predator _would_ know.”

“You are –!” John strangles whatever he was _going_ to say in its linguistic crib – not the _best_ metaphor to use in proximity to a Seed, but there you go – and takes a deep, fortifying breath. “You are making this weirder than it is.”

Robin gestures towards the bunker-dwelling reptile again, “Yeah, I don’t actually think that’s possible.”

“ _Look_ , the alligator serves a _purpose_ , _**alright**_?! A very important, _reasonable_ –”

“You got it so you could feed people who’ve displeased you to it, didn’t you?”

The room goes utterly silent.

Then…

“… No.”

Robin side-eyes him again, expression flatter than an entire desert of judgment. “What? Couldn’t you work out the logistics for a shark tank to drop people into?”

The room goes silent again.

Despite herself, Robin realizes that she is _actually_ feeling a swell of shock and disbelief sweep over her, her eyes going wide and her jaw going slack as she _stares_ at him. “Sweet fuzzy monkey god… you are _literally_ a Bond Villain.” _How_ is this her life? _How_ is _he_? Just… just _how?_ “You… you are… actually Ernst Blofeld right now. All you need’s the cat.”

John stutters back to life at that, again, gaping and sputtering silently for a few moments. Then, face red enough to approach apoplectic, he turns away – pouting and all but crossing his arms in petulant embarrassment and –

“Emilio Largo was the one with the shark tank.”

Robin’s pretty sure she’s developed a twitch in her left eye that’ll _probably_ be with her until she dies, and it’s _all_ John’s fault. 

“And _Kananga_ was the one who had people fed to alligators.”

_For the love of –_

“You’re not helping your case here, oh Herald Bond Villain.” She turns back to glare through the cage bars at the (reptilian) beast – which is completely unimpressed by her ire, so far as she can tell, but is also much less annoying than John, so – and a little scoff breaks free from her. “Next thing I know you’re going to be strapping people to overly complicated deathtraps and demanding... well… nuclear launch codes are a little irrelevant now I guess so… I don’t know, the location of people’s chocolate stashes or something.”

The room falls back into silence.

Sighing a little, and very much anticipating the approach of a truly _epic_ tantrum, Robin glances back over to the (mammalian) beast.

And promptly freezes.

John’s not pouting anymore.

He’s _smiling_.

And every survival instinct and danger-sense inside Robin goes _nuts_.

“Well…” Trust John Seed to make an innocuous little one syllable word as weighty and suggestive as a Russian Masterpiece length smut novel. It’s kind of impressive, really. Much like how he can pack an entire _library_ of salacious intent into one raised eyebrow as he _purrs_ , “if you insist…”

Staring at John in complete disbelief, Robin can _feel_ something in her brain break.

“You… _cannot_ be serious right now.”

John breathes a little hum of laughter, head cocked rakishly to one side, any and all trace of embarrassment or offense gone as he smirks at her. “Please darling,” one of his pretty painted hands goes towards her hair, and she bats it away with – depressingly well-practiced – ease and glares. He – rather irritatingly – just chuckles at that, nothing but warm amusement and simmering arousal in his continued purr, “ _you’re_ the one who brought it up. What with your little fixation on the whole,” his hand goes for her waist this time, the distinct flavor of _leering_ slipping its way into his grin, “‘Bond villain’ thing.”

She bats his hand away again, and follows the bat up with a scolding punch to the gut – barely a tap and yet enough to make him gasp and take a wary step backwards ( _Pansy_ ) – and another glare. “Yeah, well John, I’m standing here in your Secret Lair and staring at your damn alligator,” John recovers enough to snicker at that, because apparently he’s secretly _twelve_. Robin ignores him, for the sake of her own sanity more than anything else, and sighs again, “it’s a _little_ har- _difficult_ ,” fucking _**twelve**_ , _seriously_ , “to think of anything else at the moment.”

“Oh, of _course_.” He smiles down at her, all condescending and not at all pretty – _Smug patronizing asshole_ – and eyes growing darker and hungrier by the second. “Though, you know… if I really _were_ the Bond villain you take me for, my dear Deputy,” he drawls out the title even _more_ than his usual overarticulated manner, the dark hunger gone up to Lovecraftian entity levels, “I doubt you’d have the time to waste worrying about my little friend there. No… you’d be a bit… _tied up._ ” He lets that absolute gem hang in the air for a moment, one eyebrow cocked and eyes sparkling, grin sharp and hungry and proud enough of itself to fit right on in at the shark tank. Then, because John Seed is simultaneously an utter bastard and a _complete **dork**_ , he winks at her and _purrs_ , “With other matters.”

_Seriously?_ Robin thinks, mind a little numb with pained disbelief.

“Seriously?” Robin says, staring flatly at John. With pained disbelief. Because, yeah, there’s no other response to that.

The smug dorky bastard just grins at her, like he’s as clever and attractive as he thinks he is. “Why certainly.” Wariness gone, he takes a step towards her, hands reaching for her again and, eventually, managing to avoid her own batting hands – _also_ with depressingly well-practiced ease, damn her entire life – and get a hold on her hips. “I could hardly allow an enemy agent unrestrained access to my… Secret Lair,” the way he waggles his eyebrows and grins around the words could _probably_ constitute an act of sexual harassment in and of themselves, “now could I?” 

Robin rolls her eyes, shoves at his shoulders, and doesn’t bother to bite back the groan of pain.

John isn’t dissuaded in the least. 

Hell, if anything, it looks like her annoyance and cheese-related pain is spurring him on (and turning him on too, but with John that’s _kind of_ a given).

He takes another step closer, nudging her backwards towards the wall as he does, tugging a little on her hips as his grin gets hungrier and hungrier. “No, Deputy,” if his purr gets any thicker he’s probably going to choke on it ( _if only_ ), “you’d be kept somewhere – _quite_ secure and _very_ well kept.” He grins and chuckles right over her groan of disgusted pain, and takes advantage her momentary distraction to back her all the way up against the wall. “Struggling.” His voice dips abruptly down into a husky little whisper, his hands following suit and slowly whispering up and down along her ribcage, one stealing up under her shirt to rest warmly against her stomach as he leans over her. “ _Helpless_.” The hand under her shirt glides slowly upwards, and the other falls back down to curl around her waist, and his lips brush lightly against the shell of her ear. “ _Completely_ ,” his lips brush down her jaw and his teeth nip at her throat, his voice barely even a whisper now, all the raw hunger thrumming through her skin as he _breathes_ , “at my mercy…”

Robin sighs, gets a hand into his ridiculously well-coiffed hair, and _yanks_. Horny bastard _mewls_ at that, damn him. “ _Seriously_?” The eye-twitch is back, full force, and she does her damnedest to glare through it. “Yeah, I don’t know if you even _remember_ this John… but we’ve done all that.” Her lips pull away from her teeth in a _type_ of smile, and she gets a hand up to shove him back a step. He keeps grinning at her, and the hand that’s _still_ under her shirt makes a play for getting up under her bra too. Internally debating the possibility of driving her knee up into his junk – _cons, he’ll whine like a bitch for **days** ~~and she’ll probably want the use of that piece of equipment, properly functioning, again at some point~~ ; pros, it’ll probably get him to knock these cheesy, triggering shenanigans the fuck **off**_ – Robin shoves at him again and _snarls_. “And this may come as a shock to you, but reminding me of that time you started _torturing_ me isn’t _exactly_ a turn-on.”

Presumably unaware of the potential danger his groin is in, John just tugs a little against the hand in his hair, grinning sharper and brighter and smugger, eyes bright with Lust ( _damn hypocrite_ ) and amusement. “Oh?” And then – because, obviously, the jackass’s favorite word isn’t _no_ – he surges forward again, grinning through her swears and snarls, humming low in his throat as he beats her to the metaphorical punch, his leg slipping between hers and pressing _up_ and –

Robin’s eyes roll back in her head, a rush of heat washing over her as she bites down _hard_ into her lower lip, fighting against the raw _moan_ that surges up from somewhere deep inside.

From somewhere beyond the heat, she can hear John’s low chuckle, feel his hand slid upwards and under her bra, _feel_ his leg roll up against her again. “Are you _entirely_ sure about that, Sweetheart?”

Through the haze of electric heat, panting and shivering, Robin forces her eyes open and onto his stupid grinning face.

The prick _winks_ at her.

_Mother…_

Pulling her lips back into another technical smile, Robin curls her fingers into _claws_ where they’re still clutching John’s hair, and purrs back at him. “ _Fuck you, John_.”

Masochistic little bitch just moans again, smile and eyes _brilliant_ in smug triumph. “Well, we can certainly work our way there if –”

Robin _yanks_ him down with another snarl.

After all, she has _much_ better things for John to do with his mouth than gloat.

And, though a cocky bastard he might be, John Seed is a _**damn**_ good kisser.

Hot damn but he’s a good kisser.

And then, before she could snarl “this proves _nothing_ , you _jackass_ ” – if, indeed, she was physically capable or mentally inclined to snarl – they’re going at it like damn _teenagers_ and nothing else really matters.

John’s got her part way up the wall, one of her legs kicking up and wrapping around his waist, all the better for them to press against each other, Robin snarling and biting into the kiss each time he rolls – hot and hard and _exquisite_ – up against her, one hand scratching and clawing against his scalp while the other copies him, slipping underneath his expensive shirt and _raking_ blunt nails across his chest, John _wailing_ into her mouth, surging up against her, arm tugging them closer together and hand _squeezing_ on the border of _too rough_ and –

Robin pulls back just enough to get his lower lip between her teeth and bites down _hard_ , in the _exact_ moment that her thumb brushes feather-light circles over his nipple, and if John was wailing a second ago he’s _sobbing_ now, breaking away and head falling against her shoulder the second her teeth retreat, gasping and whimpering and moaning against her skin, and Robin throws her head back and _laughs_ , the sound breaking off into a sobbing moan of her own when John snarls and sinks his teeth around her collarbone.

The hand under her shirt retreats – just long enough to frantically tug free the top few buttons of her shirt – and she’s always been a t-shirts girl but _damn_ if John isn’t making great lengths in his quest to sway her into button downs (even if she _knows_ it’s all so he can occasionally have the pleasure of ripping her clothes off her without having to worry about her killing him for permanently destroying them) – and his mouth’s making its way southward, licking and kissing and biting possessively over glossy black _Wrath_ that cuts across her chest – and she’d be _so_ much more pissed over him bragging over his own damn handiwork like this if it didn’t feel so _fucking **good**_ – while his hand finds its way back up under her bra and –

Robin’s head knocks hard back against the wall, eyes falling shut and hands just holding on as she takes a second to let John _work_.

Damn but the side benefits of the whole bunker situation are _**nice**_.

Her one hand’s still fisted in his hair while the other’s going down between them, fumbling at the fastenings of her jeans (because _apparently_ John can’t be assed to do it himself at the moment, and wet denim’s a _bitch_ ), and she’s only _just_ got the button undone when John does _that thing_ with his long, clever fingers, accompanied by a little _flick_ with his tongue, the sensations burning through her skin and sending her into an arch so sharp it _hurts_ , and shaking and moaning and panting through it as she keens, presses up against him, her eyes sliding open and –

Her arousal vanishes so quickly that it feels like her ladyparts have got whiplash.

“Oh, _shi-_ John. John stop.”

There’s a low growl against her tattooed skin, followed by a sharp bite that would – under just about _any_ other circumstances – be a compelling argument.

As it is, Robin abandons her grip on his hair and starts shoving in earnest at his shoulders. “Yeah – no, I – no I can’t. John, John seriously, _stop_ , I can’t do this right now, the alligator’s _looking_ at us.”

There’s another growl against her skin, “Just _ignore_ it.”

“I _can’t_ ,” her skin’s so flushed she can feel the heat, and _not_ in a good way this time. “I can feel it _judging_ me.”

He actually starts at that, the bewilderment giving her the window to shove him back a bit, and next thing John’s big blue eyes are staring up at her in utter disbelief. “Judgi- it’s an alligator!” His voice, still thick and raw with arousal, is going increasingly squeaky with incredulity and desperation. “A big _stupid_ lizard!”

“Yes,” Robin detangles her leg and gets her foot back on solid ground, the reestablished balance giving her the leverage she needs to shove him back a step, John’s shock enabling the shove and giving her the opening to grab his wrist and tug his hand back out from underneath her bra. “And I can _feel_ that lizard _**judging**_ me. There’s a… an entire _lineage_ of judgment, leading all the way back to the days of its dinosaur ancestors.” Completely unmoved by his squawk of protest, Robin slips away from the wall, flushed with shame and doing up her shirt as fast as her fingers will go. “We are being judged all the way back to the damn primeval world, John, and I just… I can’t…” Final button done up tight she throws her hands in the air, the Jazz Hands of Nope going full force as she stutters and shudders and starts moving back up the stairs. “Yeah, nope, this is too weird. I jus- hhhng!”

Watching her expeditious retreat in desperate horror, still flushed and rumpled and hard enough to hurt, John yelps and stumbles after her, “Bu- we coul- I – Robin! Sweetheart, come o-” The familiar sound of a bunker door closing cuts him off, pulling him to a halt about halfway up the stairwell. 

Eyes wide, jaw slack, and dick aching, John Seed stares upwards for a long moment.

Then, hands fisting into his hair in blind frustration, he indulges in the momentary solitude and just _drops_ down onto the stairs in what he will – only privately – admit to being an outright pout. 

“ _Damn it!_ ”

He flops back against the stairs, releasing his hair to throw an arm over his eyes as he swears and breathes and tries to calm himself down.

And then, from the depths below him, comes a low _sound_.

Very, _very_ slowly, John opens his eyes, lifts his arm, and glares back down into the room below. “ _Thanks_.” An entire lifetime of practice – and, more importantly, a career as a lawyer – turns the single syllable word into one of the vilest curses imaginable. 

The alligator stares back, unmoved and unrepentant, and snorts.

“What?!” He surges upwards, one arm bracing on his knee and the other pointing with lethal intent and barely restrained fury as he snarls at the offending reptile, “It’s not too late to turn you into shoes, you know; you stupid, oversized _gecko_.” 

The alligator only stares.

Unimpressed.

Disbelieving.

In _judgment_.

John flinches backwards, accusatory finger dipping sharply before he can catch himself.

Then, after a moment of frozen shock, a deep flush sweeps over him and he jumps to his feet, swearing and spitting and snarling all the way up the stairs. He pauses at the top for a split second, to prove that he’s damn well leaving of his own volition and not because of some... some stupid… 

Another _sound_ echoes up from the blackened depths.

Swearing, John bolts for the door.

And down below, alone within its lair, the alligator watches him leave - its judgment rendered and hunger unsated - and _waits_.

**Author's Note:**

> __  
>  **Why was there an alligator, John? O_O**   
> 


End file.
